A/N; In celebration of the new post on John Watson's blog (if you don't know, it's real), I have decided to write a one-shot. My first-ever, brand-new, written-in-the-middle-of-the-night one-shot. No OC's, no made-up anything. Just plain old bit of John and Sherlock sadness here. Enjoy.

~Le-Psychopathe-de-Perniciuex

Rain drizzled outside the small cafes. Though not particularly heavy, the water droplets being no bigger than the eye of a needle, it was dense and had a heaviness of sorts that made it virtually impossible to see through. Small splashes, plinks and plonks could be heard as puddles were stepped in or the rain hit whatever got in its way. Cars drove through the fogginess. People wove their way through a crowd of half soaked, half umbrella-holding others. London never rests no matter the weather.

Perhaps, if it wasn't for the precipitation, the two men would have met for the first time in two years; they sat in cafes directly across from each other, both by the windows and staring past the steam and condensation to the street. A foggy view is better than no view at all. The buildings on the other side seemed to them as only shadows, and if they could see and recognise each other, they would have thought it a trick of the light or their lonely thoughts, and not truly realised that they could speak again.

On one side, the Leaver. The Abandoner. The Dumper, if you like.

The Deceased.

Over the two years he had given himself many nicknames, but none seemed to truly fit; his title had been taken from him in the act of selflessness only the truest friend could give - his life. None of them knew. They thought he had descended into madness and past the point of return, past the point of survival; onto the point of suicide. But he had only given his to save theirs. It was a noble sacrifice, a necessary sacrifice, was it not? Their lives could go on without him interfering.

Regrets plagued his mind anyway, the fleeting memories of a smile or a laugh or an utterly horrific wooly jumper, thoughts of what could have been, what should have been. Everything he had given up to save them. Yes, he was alive; but his life had been taken. His life had passed. In that moment, he was again Mourner née Consulting Detective. Mourning for the old ways. Oh, how he missed the excitement! The thrill of the chase. In his mind he refused the sentimentality of himself, refused everything but that he missed the usefulness of his companions. Once he had said that sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side. In his heart he knew he was just that, falling behind the competitors, getting the bronze instead of the gold; but like a male lion beaten out of his pride he believed he would be better.

The other man thought so differently. To him, his best friend was dead. Gone. Long gone, taken away, never to be seen again. After it happened he had needed multiple therapy sessions with his long-time therapist. She had not been much help; no one had, really. In the back of his mind he knew he should move on, go find new adventures and a new life, do what his best friend would probably have thought the only logical thing to do. Logic. Logic! Bah! All logic had done to his flatmate was make him commit suicide and become the emotionless monster so many had known him as.

That cafe. Angelo's. The one they had sat in on their first case; A Study in Pink. How he had hated the name. Thought it total rubbish. And the story, too, the story he had spent five days typing and retyping into that stupid little blog his therapist made him do. They had sat together at that very table, looking out to the street, watching for the serial killer many thought to not exist. Oh, how he missed the excitement! The thrill of the chase. Adrenaline pumping, heart racing, muscles ready for action at any moment. All revived from the war by the other man. His girlfriend had helped, she had been an incredible help, and she did know that although he loved her, he loved the adventure more and would probably never get past the death of his flatmate. The Woman had been right; they were a couple. Not romantically, not officially, not legally - but a couple all the same. Partners.

Both men shook their heads and grumbled in frustration. Each had the other's representative drink; the colleague drinking black coffee with two sugars, the dead best friend with a cup of milky, but not sugary, tea. Habits picked up from each other. One with his hands in a manner similar to praying, his fingertips on his chin in a manner that was not his. One fiddling with the ends of his sleeves as if someone will come in and care about what his sleeve look like. Both completely subconscious and unintended gestures, accidentally transforming themselves into each other. Grumble grumble. They shouldn't be acting like each other; it's been two years. Two long, arduous years, full of sorrow and pain, loneliness and longing. Two years.

Fake. Fraud. Freak. Call him what you like. But know this, reader; we stand together. Us, the ever-loyal followers of him, them, the duo who changed our lives forever. Even if they die, they will live on in our minds and in the minds of our children when we tell them the stories, and their children, and their children. We are a mighty force. We believe. And if you believe enough, and it is possible, it will come true.

#SherlockLives